I shall tread, another year,
     Ways I walked with Grief,
Past the dry, ungarnered ear
     And the brittle leaf.

I shall stand, a year apart,
     Wondering, and shy,
Thinking, “Here she broke her heart;
     Here she pled to die.”

I shall hear the pheasants call,
     And the raucous geese;
Down these ways, another Fall,
     I shall walk with Peace.

But the pretty path I trod
     Hand-in-hand with Love,—
Underfoot, the nascent sod,
     Brave young boughs above,

And the stripes of ribbon grass
     By the curling way—
I shall never dare to pass
     To my dying day.